


A Little Reminder

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: The Greatest Game [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom John, But mostly porn, Fluff, John's POV Kind of, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn, Rimming, Seriously you guys, Top Sherlock, john tops from the bottom kind of, porn with a bit of plot, post-HLV, relationship, sherlock tries to use sex to get out of conversations, so much porn, third person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:39:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You said,” Sherlock raises up a bit and sucks at the skin just below John’s belly button.  “You said I could do this, ‘later.’”  John feels Sherlock’s thumb circle and gently press lower, at the tight ring of muscle below his perineum.  He remembers his own words clearly.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>“I want you to fuck me, too.”</em><br/><em>“I’ll show you on me, later.”</em></p><p> </p><p>“Is that what you want, Sherlock?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Reminder

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo...porn? 
> 
> A bit more angsty porn that actually may lead to some plot, but, yeah. It's mostly porn. I'm not so much about the cases and the mysteries, but I tried.
> 
> Bit OoC maybe, but again, my interpretation is Sherlock is an emotionally stunted man-child and John more often than not has to be the mature, healthy, grown-up. Well, healthy compared to Sherlock. And I think John has it in his head to do this right, after so many years wasted because both their heads were shoved up their asses.
> 
> Also, porn. And shout out to everyone who's posted a headcanon that John calls Sherlock "love." I think there's universal agreement on that. 
> 
> If you so desire, my tumblr is [Whimsical Ethnographies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1951785). I'm not above shameless plugs.

Sherlock has been moody for a few days. Not his usual apocalyptic strop, but quiet, reserved.

John is, of course, concerned.

Since their relationship took a turn for the better a few weeks prior, Sherlock had been an absolute delight. Oh, he was still Sherlock, still lazy and haughty and sharp-tongued, but the edges were dulled. John feels as though he’s learned more about Sherlock in twenty-four days than he had in four years, and he loves every minute of it.

What he was most delighted to discover was that Sherlock was a cuddler. John was used to a bit of cuddling with his previous relationships, usually after sex or first thing in the morning, Sherlock seemed to crave touch more than anymore he’d ever met. He’d curl into John at the most random times, simply standing up from where he was sitting to move into John’s space, long and languid and loose. John found he greatly enjoyed it, sitting in his chair reading or watching the news with a lap full of lanky detective, his chin resting in a mop of dark curls.

And the sex was better than John had ever had. Sherlock was incredibly passionate and surprisingly physical, and John was almost afraid he had released some sort of monster on the world. Of course, John was sure it had more to do with their intense connection outside of the actual physical act itself. It was both comfortable and a constant surprise, intense and somehow mild, guileless and treacherous. It was John and Sherlock and it was perfect. Even though it had only been just over three weeks, Sherlock was becoming braver and bolder, voicing what he wanted and giving John whatever he asked for. He was starting to come out of his shell, as John felled his walls brick by brick and let Sherlock know that no part of him would be out of reach in turn. John had always enjoyed returning to Baker Street from the surgery or the shops, but now he found his body veritably humming with anticipation as he unlocked the door, wondering whether it would be Sherlock’s hand or mouth, or if he would be able to slide inside that tight body that was only his, and how Sherlock would want John to please him in turn.

And that mouth, soft and languid and eager, getting more talented every day. John could kiss Sherlock for days if he wasn’t required to eat and sleep and go to the loo in order to survive. And it was nice to know John had a new way to shut that mouth up. It had been quite lovely indeed.

But the last few days have been…off.

At first Sherlock was simply more quiet. Although Sherlock had claimed the day they first met that that he sometimes wouldn’t talk for days, John had figured out not too long into their friendship that Sherlock spoke more often than he didn’t, often when John wasn’t even around. But the last few days, he spoke rarely, until when yesterday he only spoke when John addressed him directly.

Then he became less physical. There was always a hint of trepidation in Sherlock’s advances, they were real and heartfelt but John always detected a tinge of fear that he would get pushed away, but he still made them and the fear was slowly slipping away. After their first night and subsequent morning together, Sherlock was just as likely to initiate touch as John was, leaning in for kisses and grabbing hands and throwing himself in John’s lap while he laid on the couch. But the past few days, John noticed he stopped initiating. He still leaned in when John pulled him close, answered kisses when they were given, and allowed John to lead him by the hand to his (their) bedroom. Until last night.

Last night Sherlock refused to come to bed.

John had been watching telly, unusually alone in his chair. Usually by ten o’clock he was actively pushing Sherlock’s head down so he could see the screen. But Sherlock was sitting stiff-backed at the kitchen table, peering into his microscope. John had gotten quite used to physical affection and was missing it, even if it had only been fifteen hours since Sherlock was last pressed against him.

~~

_“Well,” John announced, turning off the telly. “Think I’ll head to bed.” He got up and walked over to Sherlock._

_“Alright.” Sherlock didn’t move._

_“I was hoping,” John pushed his nose into dark curls, inhaled deeply then huffed against Sherlock’s scalp. “You were feeling sleepy too. Hmmm?”_

_“Busy, John,” Sherlock didn’t even look up from his microscope._

_“Alright,” John stiffened, taken aback. He wasn’t hurt so much as confused. “Well,” he lifted his hand and affectionately squeezed Sherlock’s neck. “Don’t stay up all night, love.”_

_“Mmmm.”_

_Then John had simply leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s temple, tugged gently on one of the curls at the nape of his neck, and went to bed alone._

_Sherlock never came to bed._

_The next morning John woke up alone to find Sherlock fully dressed, pouring over something on his laptop. Lestrade had texted before six with a cold case that suddenly turned white hot. Within an hour John was dressed and eating a pastry from Mrs. Hudson in a cab to NSY. Aside from explaining the case to him, Sherlock had barely spoken two words to John, and now he was seated at the far side of the cab._

_“Everything alright, Sherlock?” John reached over and took Sherlock’s hand. He jumped a little, but didn’t pull away._

_“Fine, John.”_

_John frowned to himself. At least he didn’t pull away. Perhaps it was just one of Sherlock’s usual moods, slightly different now because their relationship was, actually, different now. Well, they were off on a case, which, John noted, they hadn’t had in a long enough time. Even John had started to get itchy, despite their new arrangement. Of course Sherlock was going to start to unravel._

_“Well,” he squeeze Sherlock’s hand, pulls it to rest on his knee. “This case sounded interesting. And I’m glad, need to get out and run a bit.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes flick to John briefly, then look back out the window. But, he squeezed John’s hand in response, and that was enough to calm John a bit._

_It was a hell of a case. Someone had blackmailed someone else with evidence of an affair and subsequent murder, and somehow Russian nationals had made their way into England and were attempting to hold the information over the Ukrainian ambassador’s head. It was the murder part that Lestrade had summoned Sherlock over, a photograph sent to the Yard of the victim. The situation unraveled from there, and around midnight John was chasing Sherlock through a dank industrial complex. He couldn’t be arsed to care about the finer points of the case right now, he was just glad to be running. No wonder Sherlock was so wound up! John hadn’t even realized how antsy he was getting._

_Sherlock had been crouched behind an empty shipping bin, John across the way crouched behind the another. When John heard the clanging from down a corridor behind him, there was no way for him to alert Sherlock without alerting anyone else in the immediate vicinity. So John turned and followed the noise. The corridor was long and dark, but John was humming with adrenaline and had more experience behind him than whoever he was chasing, and really, it was over before it started. Or at least it was to John._

_He hadn’t wandered too far away. And he hadn’t been gone too long, really. But what John didn’t know was that Sherlock had turned and noticed him missing, then a few seconds later heard the gunshots._

_John hadn’t even heard his panicked scream until he had his prey pinned to the ground, John’s knee was pressing into his back, blood from the bullet wound in the thug’s thigh smearing over his clothes._

_“JOHN!! J-JOHN!”_

_John didn’t answer, he was too busy forcing Mr. Eastern Block’s arms behind his back, securing his wrists with a pair of handcuffs he started carrying so he didn’t have to wait for Sherlock._

_“JOHN!!”   The second yell was more frantic, desperate. John could hear Sherlock’s shoes beating against the concrete floor as he ran down the hall towards them. When the thug was thoroughly subdued, John looked up down the hall and responded, quite pleased with himself._

_“I got him, Sher—” John was bodily hauled off his catch and thrown on his arse against the close wall._

_“John,” Sherlock was breathing hard, running his hands over John’s body, squeezing, feeling. “Blood…John, JOHN! Where…” Long fingers pressed into ribs, running along John’s neck._

_“Jesus, Sherlock!” John couldn’t help but laugh. He didn’t mean to, but in the moment, he couldn’t help it. “I’m fine, it’s all his. Sher—Sherlock! Stop! I’m not hurt.” John grabbed Sherlock’s hands, forced him to stop his prodding. One look at Sherlock’s eyes told John that his response was a Bit Not Good. He would swear they actually flashed._

_“What the FUCK where you thinking?!?” Sherlock threw John’s hands down and stood. “Don’t ever, EVER run off!”_

_“Christ, Sherlock, I got him!”_

_“And if you hadn’t? What a FUCKING STUPID thing to do…running off.” Sherlock started pacing manically. “There could have been more, I deduced there are at least three others in this building and we don’t know enough about them, we don’t know who is behind--”_

_“Which you never bothered to tell me, and now those other three will know where we are!”_

_“Don’t EVER run off without me! EVER! I need to know where you are at all times!” Sherlock had been shaking._

_“Christ, Sherlock! You run off all the time!” John pushed himself off the ground. “The difference is when I do it, I don’t end up in deeper trouble. And, I got him.”_

_Sherlock merely glared back, breathing hard through his mouth. His face was like stone. “Lestrade!” He addressed the Detective Inspector when he came running behind them. “Take him. I’m leaving.”_

_John and Greg shared one confused look as Sherlock spun away and strode down the hall without another word._

_In the cab back to Baker Street Sherlock sat pressed up against the door, as far as he could get from John. The silence was icy._

_“Sherlock, I’m sorry if I scared you by running off, but honestly I had it under control.”_

_“And if you hadn’t?” Sherlock snarled. “We don’t know enough to do stupid things. And I didn’t know where you were.”_

_“You’re overreacting, Sherlock.”_

_“No.” He didn’t say anything else._

_When they arrived home, Sherlock had exited the cab without a word, leaving John to pay. By the time John got up into the flat, the bathroom door was shut and the shower was running. John pressed his ear to the door—an old habit of his for whenever Sherlock was in a mood and shut himself in a room alone—and he thought he could hear retching under the sound of the water. He wasn’t sure, though, and needed time to collect his own thoughts. Otherwise he would have simply gone in. It couldn’t possibly be that Sherlock was just sick. When Sherlock was sick, he was very vocal in letting everyone know in a very dramatic way._

_This was different. They were in a different place and something was very wrong and John needed to THINK._

_When Sherlock finished showering, he went directly to their (his?) bedroom without a word. So John went into the loo to shower himself._

_~~_

When John comes out of the shower, Sherlock is sitting in his chair.   He’s in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt and his red dressing gown, and there’s a glass of scotch in his hand. He barely looks up when John sits in the worn armchair across from him.

“Alright, Sherlock,” John scrubs the back of his damp head with a towel. “You want to tell me what’s gotten into you?”

“You ran off. You shouldn’t have. I didn’t know where you were. There could have been trouble.”

“Yes, Sherlock, I understand that I scared you and I apologize—even though it’s hardly the first time I’ve done that and you certainly have no qualms leaving me behind. And there’s always trouble! But you’ve been acting strange for a few days now. Strange even for you.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick up to John’s face, then down again. He sips some of the scotch. In the brief eye contact, John catches a cloud of what he saw earlier: fear. He sighs and throws the towel over the back of his chair, then gets up and crosses the distance between their two chairs. John lowers himself between Sherlock’s knees, places his hands on his thin thighs.

“You know, if your stomach is bothering you, you shouldn’t be drinking scotch.”

“It’s not bothering me. Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

“I’m not deaf, Sherlock. I heard you.” John lifts a hand and places it on Sherlock’s flat stomach. His thumb rubs gently. “Are you not feeling well, love? Is that what’s been bothering you?”

“No, John! And I’m not a child! I—” Sherlock pushes John out of the way and stands up. He starts pacing. “I—everything is fine. And YOU shouldn’t have run off!” One hand digs into his curls. It’s a nervous tick of his, grabbing his hair when something is bothering him. John’s seen it a hundred times, and he doesn’t think so little of Sherlock to think that he doesn’t know he knows.

“Sherlock,” John grabs his arm to stop him, turning him to face him.

“I never said you were a child, Sherlock, but you are acting like one. Something is bothering you and it’s not just that I ran off without you. You’ve been acting strange for days. And if we’re going to do this,” John means them, “then you have to talk to me. That’s the way it works. You can sulk and snap and I don’t expect anything different, but at some point I am going to ask you what’s bothering you and expect you to tell me. You asked me if I would tell you if you were doing it wrong, and, well, I won’t say you’re doing it wrong but it is important that you talk to me.” John squeezes Sherlock’s biceps. “Is it me? Have I done something?” He tries to be lighthearted, but he’s only half-joking. God, he hopes Sherlock isn’t uncomfortable with him. Not now, when they finally seem to be on the right path.

“No,” Sherlock looks up at him through his eyelashes. “It’s not you. You’re perfect.”

“Well, that’s not true, but it’s a relief,” John smiles warmly and steps in closer. He puts his hand on Sherlock’s neck and squeezes gently. “Then what is it, love?” They haven’t discusses pet names outside of “baby” yet, but “love” is one that John’s been using since their first night together and Sherlock has yet to object. “Are you worried about something?”

“I—maybe…” He trails off, looking at their feet.

“Ok, well, first I’m going to say, whatever it is, I’m here and now we’re in everything together,” John lifts his head and gently presses his lips to Sherlock’s. They’re soft and warm and don’t fight. “You know that,” another peck, another gentle squeeze of his neck. John leans back to look Sherlock in the eyes. “Now that I’ve said that and you hopefully believe it, what is both—”

John is cut off by Sherlock’s mouth, hot and insistent and demanding. He can’t help but respond, pushing his tongue back and sweeping it along the roof of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Okay,” he pulls back after a few breathless moments. Sherlock’s mouth moves to his cheek, sweeping his tongue across John’s stubble. “You can’t just—Sherlock—you’re still going to talk to me.” His teeth scrape against John’s neck. Shit. “Sherlock! And you taste like a cigarette.” Sherlock stops him with his mouth again, licking his way between John’s lips. One large hand reaches under John’s old bathrobe and cups his backside, pressing them together. John can feel a growing erection against his front. And he should really get a longer robe.

“This isn’t fair,” John gasps good naturedly between hot kisses. Dammit. Sherlock fights dirty. John knows he’s trying to avoid conversation and he rationally knows it’s not healthy behavior.

“Mmmm…” Sherlock hums into John’s mouth and wiggles his hips a bit. John’s growing cock catches on Sherlock’s through his coarse robe. He really has unleashed a monster. Sherlock’s lips pull off John’s with a wet *smack* and move to his neck, nipping and sucking to a spot just below John’s ear.

“Yes, yes, alright,” he gasps, sliding his arm around Sherlock’s waist. His free hand buries in his hair, still slightly damp and drying into frizzy, fluffy waves without product. “Bedroom.” John is really helpless when it comes to Sherlock, sly and naïve and ravenous and inexperienced all at the same time. He’s irresistible. John twists his fingers into fuzzy ringlets and pulls Sherlock’s mouth off his neck to look at him. “But we’re not finished, yeah?”

Sherlock smiles coyly, peering at John through heavily-lidded eyes. His face is lightly flushed and his lips are beginning to swell. Sonofabitch. John is a goner.

“Fuck you, you gorgeous bastard,” John leans up and sucks on Sherlock’s upper lip, biting gently. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” Sherlock purrs.

“Unfortunately. Bedroom,” John rasps, diving back in. They lick, suck, and bite their way to Sherlock’s bedroom. They’ve gotten better at avoiding furniture and walls in the past three weeks, and make it there with only one stubbed toe. They collapse on Sherlock’s bed in a tangled heap, his long dressing gown twisted around them.

Sherlock pins John down to the mattress, one knee on either side of his hips. His long fingers deftly untie John’s robe as his mouth moves to suckle and nip at the scar on John’s shoulder.

“Jesus, Sherlock…” he gasps, as his bare cock rubs against the hard bulge in Sherlock’s pajamas. “Slow…slow down, love. Fuck!” His teeth find John’s left nipple and scrape. “Fuck, Sherlock…” He grabs Sherlock’s neck and pulls his head back. “Let me get a chance at you, love. There’s no rush.” John’s hand moves to Sherlock’s crotch and rubs gently. His eyes rolls back and he lets out a moan.

“John…”

“Yeah,” John chuckles, squeezing. “At least now I have a way to stop you in your tracks. And you have too many clothes on, if I can say.” Sherlock smiles his lopsided smile and immediately shakes off the satin gown. John shivers as the slippery material brushes against his glans, already exposed and leaking. Sherlock’s eyes glaze when he sees a thread of moisture pull away from the tip of John’s penis on the robe. He licks his lips and starts to lean down over John’s cock but he stops him. “No. You still have too many clothes on. Come here.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock’s moan rumbles in his chest as John pulls their mouths back together. He works his hands up under Sherlock’s t-shirt, running his fingertips along the ridges and dips of scar tissue on his long back. They pull apart just briefly so John can pull Sherlock’s shirt over his head.

“You really need to eat more,” John mumbles around his tongue, pressing one finger into a prominent vertebra.

“You always say that,” Sherlock moves to suckle on John’s earlobe and swivels his hips a bit, grinding into John’s cock.

“Fuck…it’s true,” John gasps and pushes his hips up, lifting them both off the mattress. His hands slip inside Sherlock’s pajama bottoms to cup his arse as he moves down John’s body, nipping and sucking. Sherlock bites gently on the soft flesh covering John’s belly, eliciting a yelp and a squeeze. “Hey! Don’t suck on my fat!”

“Mmm, I like it.” Sherlock tongues at John’s navel, presses his face into his stomach, exhales softly. “You smell good,” he looks up at him.

“Soap,” John smiles and reaches down to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as he rests his chin on his belly. The head of his cock is brushing against Sherlock’s long neck, smearing pre-come against that porcelain skin.

“No, it smells like you,” Sherlock presses his noise into the dark blond hair between John’s legs and inhales. One large hand comes up and grasps the base of John’s cock. “Strong and clean and YOU.” He huffs.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John’s hips push up a bit. It still blows his mind how passionate, how sensual Sherlock is. And it still frightens John a bit how strongly he responds, how hungry he is for this glorious creature. “You’re so beautiful…”

“So are you,” Sherlock whispers, pulling back and leaning on his elbows between John’s legs to examine his cock. He runs one index finger around the head, dragging silky wetness from the slit. “I can feel your pulse.”

“Mmmm…” John is having difficulty staying still under his ministrations, watching Sherlock through heavy lids. He will never get tired of Sherlock worshipping him like this.

“Elevated,” Sherlock whispers hoarsely, looking up at John’s face under his frizzy fringe. John’s hand brushes it out of the way gently. Sherlock maintains eye contact as he pulls his index finger off the head of John’s cock and brings it to his mouth, sucking the wetness off.

“Fuck,” John lets out a shaky breath. “FUCK!!” He grunts and his head rolls back and Sherlock proceeds to swallow his cock down whole. His fingers twist into curls and his back arches. Sherlock usually proves to be an expert at almost everything he sets his mind to, including the art of fellatio. One hand fondles John’s testicles, rolling the sensitive glands between his fingers as his head bobs, his tongue sweeping along the thick vein on the underside of John’s shaft.

“152 beats per minutes,” Sherlock pulls back, his soft lips brushing against John’s glans as he speaks. “Elevated.” His tongue darts out, presses into John’s sensitive urethra, tonguing him for a few moments as John’s groans above him. Then he sinks down again, and John almost loses it as Sherlock swallows around the head of his cock, throat constricting and rippling in glorious waves.

“Fuck! Sherlock…Sherlock, love,” John’s fingers press into his skull, stilling his movements. “Stop. I’m going, I’m going to…”

“I know.” Sherlock whispers against his hot flesh. “I know when to stop.”

“You glorious bastard,” John chuckles breathlessly. “I hate you.”

“Mmmm…no,” Sherlock winks and nips again, then moves the hand on John’s balls down to press at his perineum. His breath is hot and wet against John’s cock, he’s just as breathless as he is. “John.” He presses again, slightly lower, and John jerks.

“Yes, love?” John pushes himself up on his elbows to look at the man between his thighs. The shock of black hair and red lips and the flush creeping up his neck is delightful against Sherlock’s usually pale skin. John reaches down to rub his shoulders, damp with sweat.

“You said,” Sherlock raises up a bit and sucks at the skin just below John’s belly button. “You said I could do this, ‘later.’” John feels Sherlock’s thumb circle and gently press lower, at the tight ring of muscle below his perineum. He remembers his own words clearly.

_“I want you to fuck me, too.”_

_“I’ll show you on me, later.”_

“Is that what you want, Sherlock?”

“Yes, yes. Please.” He inhales deeply, presses his thumb a little harder, but doesn’t breach. “Can I? Please? I want to be inside you…”

“Yes. Fuck, yes, Sherlock!” John grabs his wrists and pulls him bodily up so he can kiss him. It’s messy and frantic and John can taste remnants of his secretions on Sherlock’s tongue. He has no qualms about bottoming, not with Sherlock. In fact, he had been a bit disappointed Sherlock hadn’t asked sooner, although he would never complain about being able to be inside Sherlock. He’s a doctor, for fuck’s sake, he understands erogenous zones and the joys of concentrated nerve endings, and the anus is loaded with them. Plus, he’s not adverse to prostate stimulation, many a girlfriend in the past have popped a finger in when going down on him. And with Sherlock, with his long delicate fingers and glorious cock…John shudders at the thought. “How do you want me, love?” He hooks his fingers into Sherlock’s pajama pants, jostles them a little. Sherlock hisses at the friction of the cotton against his erection.

“On, on your front,” he stutters, one large palm pressing against John’s chest.

“Okay,” John kisses him sweetly, then guides them up to sit so he can remove shuck his robe. He tosses it on the mattress and rolls over onto his elbows on top of it. Why ruin the sheets? “Don’t forget the lube.” John reaches under the pillow to extract the bottle and then watches as Sherlock removes his pants and his mouth waters as his cock springs free, long and flushed and wet at the tip. “And go slow.”

“Alright,” Sherlock exhales, kneeling between his legs and leaning over. John feels wetness on his neck from Sherlock’s mouth, followed by wetness on the back of his thigh as his cock brushes against him. He shudders. Sherlock mouths down his back, murmuring nonsense and licking at his vertebrae, large hands massaging his arse. He nips slightly at the extra padding, kneading and spreading his arse cheeks apart just barely.

“Sherlock, that tickles,” John chuckles, then stiffens and gasps as Sherlock’s tongue runs up the length of his gluteal cleft. “Oh! Fuck, Sherlock?” His voice comes out high-pitched, a question as Sherlock’s tongue swipes against the tight ring of muscle. He feels coolness as his mouth pulls back and John cranes his neck to look behind him.

“John,” Sherlock is staring at his backside, examining him, then one hand comes up to massage his perineum and his face sinks back in. John’s head drops back into the pillow as Sherlock licks and sucks, saliva running down the back of his scrotum. Neither has done this to the other before and John’s head is swimming. No woman has done this to him either. It’s an entirely new experience and it’s wonderful and dirty and it’s _Sherlock_.

“Heh,” John huffs into the pillow as he hears the cap on the lube being flicked open. Sherlock’s mouth leaves him and he pushes his face into John’s back.

“You taste like soap,” Sherlock murmurs, kissing his left iliac crest and John feels one long finger, slippery with lube pushing at his entrance. “Guide me…”

“O-okay…slowly,” John grunts, then hisses as Sherlock’s finger slides in. He exhales shakily, his sphincter muscle quivering around the intrusion. “Angle, angle down…yes, like that.” John pushes his hips a bit higher, cranes around to see Sherlock staring again. “A little deeper, you’ll feel a bend…crook, crook your finger a bit—FUCK!” The breath leaves John’s lungs in a rush as Sherlock finds his prostrate and he jerks.

“Like that?” Sherlock exhales, and through the fuzzy buzz of pleasure John detects a hint of wonder in his voice. He presses a bit more and John’s thighs quiver.

“Yes, yes…Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” John moans as Sherlock strokes a bit more.

“It’s so tight…”

“Yes, it’s, it…ooooh, shit…” John whistles through his teeth. He presses his forehead back into the pillow and wriggles his arse a bit. “Another, slowly.” Sherlock complies, sliding a second slick finger into him. Christ, his fingers are so long and perfect as they thrust and scissor, pressing against the heavy gland on each turn and before John realizes it, he’s actively rocking his hips back, his cock grinding painfully into the rough material of his robe.

“John…”

“Okay, okay Sherlock. Enough, before I come right here. I think that’s enough.” He pushes himself back up on his elbows and turns to look it Sherlock. He’s breathing heavily, staring at his fingers in John’s arse.

“I won’t hurt you?” He wriggles them again, completely mesmerized.

“No, no, I think this is good.” John chuckles. “I want that cock of yours in me.” Sherlock’s eyes meet his, pupils dilated. “Come on, love. Fuck me like I fuck you.”

Sherlock makes a sound like a growl and pulls his fingers out, perhaps a bit too fast and it hurts. He kneels and goes to line himself up and John has to stop him.

“Sherlock! Lube! Lots of lube, love.” Sherlock’s face twists in shame and John laughs. “Hey, hey! It’s alright, I’m excited too.” He wriggles his backside again as Sherlock pours some lube into his hand, then more down John’s arse crack. “I just don’t think we’re ready for it dry yet. I’ve never done this before.”

Sherlock can’t help but smile back. “Me neither,” he giggles, and John catches the unabashed love and almost downright innocent excitement in his face. It should be positively obscene and it is, but John loves it. He feels a stab of sharp pride in his gut at relieving Sherlock of his innocence. Again.

“Yes, well. Get it on then! Go slowly, and wait a moment when you’re fully in.”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock rubs the head of his slicked cock in the lube around John’s hole, and John shivers then tenses as the head slowly pops inside. It burns and stings and his body contracts against the intrusion as Sherlock slowly inches in, arching over John’s back. When he’s fully inside, Sherlock braces himself against John’s back and exhales roughly. “Fuck. John…” He can feel Sherlock’s face scrunch, pressed between his shoulder blades. He’s breath is ragged and shaky.

“Christ, Sherlock.” John grabs one of Sherlock’s hands and intertwines their fingers against the mattress. He’s new to this particular act, but not to intimacy and emotion the way Sherlock is and if he’s overwhelmed, he can only imagine what his detective is feeling. John wills his body to relax. Sherlock’s cock is thick and long and John half wonders if he pressed against his belly if he’d be able to feel it. It burns and throbs and is horribly intrusive and it feels absolutely _wonderful._ “I know, love. Just give it a moment.”

“Am I hurt-hurting you?”

“No, no Sherlock.” He snorts out a laugh, and they both gasp and the slight movement. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, it felt amazing…”

“Yeah, yeah. Amazing is a good word.” John squeezes Sherlock’s hand against the mattress. He can feel himself relaxing. Good. “And everything you’re feeling right now…that’s what I felt when I was inside you.”

“God, John…” Sherlock chokes, moves to tighten his arm around John’s front, one large hand grasping his shoulder.

“I know, love. I know.” John strains to press his mouth against Sherlock’s forearm where it’s wrapped around his chest. “Ok, start moving—slowly!—yeah, like that. Fuck,” John’s head drops again as Sherlock’s hips begin to rock against him.

“Like that?” Sherlock can barely get the words out. His face is still pressed against John’s back.

“Yeah, angle, angle down a bit—OH! OH SHIT, SHERLOCK!” The head of Sherlock’s cock slides against John’s prostate and his vision actually goes hazy for a moment. After a short while the thrusts become longer, harder, and John’s head swims.

“John.”

“Just like that, Sherlock…” John is pretty sure he’s drooling into the pillow as Sherlock thrusts into him, chest pressed flush against his back. He can feel Sherlock’s long toes curling against his calves.

“J-John…John,” Sherlock’s vocabulary completely deteriorates mid-coitus.

“Yes, love,” John moans, starting to push back against the man behind him. “Touch, touch me,” he grabs Sherlock’s hand from his shoulder and brings it down to his cock, as hard as it’s ever been and steadily dribbling onto his robe. John has a brief inkling that he’s glad he thought to lay it over the sheets, but fire sears it into nothing as Sherlock’s large hand wraps around him and pulls. “Oh, fuck!”

“John…” Sherlock is huffing into his back, mouth open, and John can feel him drool in bliss even as his teeth press into him. He gives one sharp tug *just* as the head of his cock sweeps over John’s prostate and that’s it.

John growls and actually sinks his teeth into the pillow as the orgasm rips through him, his pelvic muscles contracting around the intrusion in his rectum and come spurting over Sherlock’s hand, the robe, onto his stomach. “Come on,” he manages to choke, spasms still shaking him as Sherlock’s hand continues to squeeze come out of him. “You next,” but he really didn’t need to coax, because Sherlock stiffens a moment later, squeezing John’s hand in a bone-crushing grip and John can feel—actually feel—Sherlock ejaculate inside him as his muscles continue to tense and contract. His arm moves to tighten around John’s waist and actually pulls him up and against him, and John is glad he’s no longer holding his penis through such a violent climax. The sudden change in position aches and John struggles to lean on his hands with Sherlock slumped around his back.

“Sherlock,” he says after a few moments, still breathless. His heart is still pounding and he can feel Sherlock’s fluttering in his chest. “Sherlock,” he laughs, and tries to lower the both to the bed. These are John’s favorite moments, the joy and haziness of afterglow. But Sherlock doesn’t move, still curled over John in an awkward position, his arm like a vice around his waist. His face is pressed into John’s neck. “Ok, love, this position is a little uncomfortable, can we—” John stops abruptly when Sherlock sniffs into his skin. He realizes the wetness on his neck isn’t sweat and that Sherlock’s slight trembling is not the remnants of a—fairly mind-blowing—orgasm. “Sher-Sherlock, Jesus, are you crying?”

Sherlock mumbles something into his skin, but doesn’t let go. If possible, John thinks his arm actually tightens. _Fuck._

“Alright,” John maneuvers and manages to displace himself enough to get a hand around Sherlock’s wrist. He winces a bit as he feels Sherlock’s softening penis slip from him. That’ll hurt later. John tugs and manages to create enough space for him to turn around in Sherlock’s embrace. He is actually crying, silently, but there are tears on his sharp cheeks. “Wow, a cry-gasm. I’m glad it was good for you, too,” John tries to joke, but he knows it sounds wrong even before it’s fully out and he regrets saying it.

Sherlock just sniffs and frowns.

“Okay.” John exhales hard. This is definitely harping on his afterglow. “Well, first, that was amazing.” He puts a finger under Sherlock’s chin and pushes up. Sherlock’s eyes look watery and apprehensive and, fearful. “So, if you’re worried about that…don’t!” John kisses his lower lip. “But, since I’m pretty sure it’s NOT about that…I’m going to go get a flannel and clean us off and then you are going to fucking talk to me.” John cups his face and kisses him soundly, then disengages himself with difficulty and goes into the loo. Walking hurts. It hurts good and John wishes he could enjoy the fact that he’s just been fucked royally by his unbelievably perfect lover while he soaps up a flannel. When he returns to the bedroom Sherlock is still kneeling on the mattress, eyes following him. At least the tears seem to have stopped.

“Come ‘ere,” John gently wipes at Sherlock’s face, then both his hands and genitals. “Up.” He guides Sherlock off his robe so he can ball it up and throw it in the hamper. “Lay down.” He squeezes Sherlock’s neck then goes back into the bathroom to wipe himself down. “Jesus Christ,” John shakes his head as he wipes down the inside of his thighs. Sherlock unleashed a mighty load, and John is very sore he’s not allowed to enjoy this. He’s not mad at Sherlock, just…yeah.

When John returns he sees Sherlock actually complied, twisted half on his side, facing the ceiling. He climbs onto the mattress and pulls the covers up over them, easing Sherlock’s one shoulder down so he’s flat on his back. John sees that while he was gone Sherlock retrieved his phone from his discarded dressing gown and it’s in his limp hand.

“Ok, Sherlock, now we’re going to talk, especially since whatever it is that’s bothering you is infringing on enjoying the after-effects of some pretty incredible sex.” He turns off the light and wraps an arm behind Sherlock’s neck, pushes his nose into his curls. “Tell me what’s wrong, love.”

“John.” It’s all Sherlock says, but he lifts his hand and holds it under John’s nose, clicking the screen on.   It takes John’s eyes a few moments to adjust in the darkness and focus on the screen.

Four words, ten letters, from an unknown number. Four days ago. And suddenly Sherlock’s mood makes sense, his anger at John running off, his fear at the “unknown” thugs John chased after. His visceral reaction to the evening’s events, to John being out of his sight for all of three minutes.

“Fuck,” John exhales.

_Miss me? x Jim_

**Author's Note:**

> See? Porn.
> 
> Now, why is Moriarty contacting Sherlock after so many months of silence? 
> 
> Really, I don't know. I haven't gotten that far ahead yet.


End file.
